


payback

by peachsneakers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Albus Dumbledore, Child Abuse, Dubious Morality, Gratuitous Use of Memory Charms, Like it's present turning to past, M/M, Morally Grey Voldemort, Past Dumbledore/Tom Riddle, Past Harry/Dumbledore, Past Rape/Non-con, Payback, Pedophilia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Rape/Non-con, brief emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachsneakers/pseuds/peachsneakers
Summary: Memory charms aren't infallible.If Albus doesn't know this, he will.(Sequel to"sacrifices")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a sequel to "sacrifices" for two reasons.
> 
> 1- because Albus deserves his comeuppance.  
> 2- because I saw this prompt on tumblr.
> 
> "The hero shows up at the villain’s doorstep one night. They’re shivering, bleeding, _scared_. There’s also a slightly dazed look in their eyes– they were drugged. They look like they were assaulted. Looking up at the villain, swaying slightly as they’re close to passing out, they mumble “…didn’t know where else to go…” then collapse into the villain’s arms."
> 
> (Tumblr post is by one-lonely-whumperfly).

Blurry.

His head hurts. His glasses are gone, probably shattered somewhere in a dusty stone corridor. Harry gropes at himself with slow and sluggish hands, feeling the rents and tears in the fabric of his robes. He doesn't know what happened. Or maybe he does.

 _It's all for the greater good, my boy._ The creaky, jovial tones of his Headmaster. The wrinkled hand combing through his unruly dark hair, pushing aside his fringe for twinkly blue eyes with nothing behind them to peer at his scar. One finger tracing it, and the flare of pain that went through his head nearly knocked him to his knees.

 _No_. He shakes his head, then promptly regrets the motion as he sicks up on the floor in front of him. He doesn't want to think about sinking to his knees, the same wrinkled hands threaded through his hair and keeping his head steady as an age-spotted cock thrusts into his mouth, knocking against his teeth. He doesn't want to think about how desperate he was to bite it, to sink his teeth into it and make the bastard bleed, and how his mind prevented it, locking his mouth open like he is nothing more than a pliable, complacent doll. Maybe he is. Maybe this is all a lie and he is but a toy, moulded by his master.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice at his elbow, thick with worry. She doesn't know all that happened, but she knows some. She is the one who found him, dazed and wandering in the dungeons, glasses hanging by a prayer, his mouth bloodied and his robes torn. At first, she thought Malfoy had done it. Harry almost wishes he had. It would be easier to accept the pompous blond Slytherin prick, the bane of his Hogwarts existence, as the one who's done such-

He retches again, but this time, a basin is thrust underneath his wobbly head. Sweat slicks his hair to his face, though Hermione's cool fingers gently push it back.

"You all right, mate?" Ron asks, hovering somewhere just out of blurred sight.

"Of course he's not," Hermione answers for him, her voice brittle and tear-thickened. "He's been- oh, god, it must have been-" 

It is Hermione who Harry offered the opportunity to look into his mind. Hermione has been studying Occlumency. As soon as she found out Harry would be learning it, she rushed to the books. She doesn't have much practical experience, but Harry doesn't care. His mind is already in shattered and blistering ruins. Anything her inexperienced clumsiness sets awry means nothing.

She discovers the Memory Charms. Layered upon each other like a shifting kaleidoscope, like a series of nested Russian dolls. Harry tells her, in a voice rough and hoarse from poor treatment, to do what she needs to do. He doesn't care if his mind cracks like an egg.

It doesn't, but he almost wishes that it had.

Albus Dumbledore, far from being the kindly, grandfatherly Headmaster, far from being the light of the wizarding world, the saviour of them all, defier of Grindelwald, is a monster. A monster hidden in outlandishly bright robes and twinkling blue eyes. Harry remembers the man's weight spread on top of him, the pain in his arsehole as the Headmaster's wizened old cock pistoned in and out, the hot, heavy breath in his ear as Dumbledore told him how much he liked it.

It started when he was  _eleven years old_. Five years it's continued on and who knows how much longer, if something hadn't happened. He still doesn't understand what. It is like the Charm, applied sloppily, wore off as soon as he left the Headmaster's office. All he knew was pain and a wild, howling chaos in his mind. He knows he ended up in the dungeon, breaking his glasses and biting through his lip.

He's spent so much more time with Dumbledore this year, hearing dark tales of Horcruxes and a young Tom Riddle. Did Dumbledore do this to him, too? Did that help set him on the path he took? Would it have mattered either way?

"I don't want to stay here," Harry confesses in a weak, choked voice, tears spilling down raw cheeks. His mouth tastes awful. "I can't- please, Hermione, Ron, I-"

"I could write to my mum?" Ron offers. Harry shakes his head frantically, a wave of fresh panic flooding him. Molly Weasley couldn't know. She'd never believe it. He would be a filthy little liar, as bad as Umbridge and Rita Skeeter ever painted him.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Ron," Hermione says gently. "For all we know, he reads the post. He can't be allowed to know that Harry  _knows_."

Even from here, Harry can see that Ron has paled beneath his freckles.

"Didn't think of that," he mutters.

"You Know Who," Harry says suddenly. It is a stupid idea, a death wish of an idea, but it is all he can think to blurt out.  _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_ and for all that Voldemort despises him, he knows that his loathing of Albus Dumbledore runs deep.

"Harry, you can't possibly mean-" Hermione starts in shock. 

"I can't stay here," Harry repeats. "Don't make me. I- I can't stay anywhere else that's safe. Anyone who could believe him. They'll want to know- he'll find me. He can't find me if I'm with You Know Who."

"But he'll kill you, mate," Ron protests.

"Maybe," Harry acknowledges. "Maybe I can- I can explain, I don't know, it's better than here,  _anything_ is better than here-"

Ron and Hermione share a reluctant look.

"All right," Hermione says slowly. "I don't like it and I don't agree with it, but you're right. You can't stay here and I can't think of anywhere you would be safe, either. The Order of the Phoenix isn't safe for you right now, not when you don't know- when you can't know- who would believe what's happened. But how are you going to get there?"

"I don't know," Harry admits weakly.

"Snape," Ron says suddenly. "He's supposed to be a spy, isn't he?"

"He hates me," Harry says. "He'll just hand me back to the Headmaster-"

"He's a Legilimens," Hermione interrupts him. "It's the best chance we've got, Harry. If you want to carry this out, it's the best plan we've got."

"Okay," Harry says. It feels now, like he really has sealed his own death. It feels freeing in a way.

The next several minutes are a blur. Hermione packs his things, ensuring that Hedwig knows to leave the castle immediately. Harry feels a pang of regret, stroking her snowy feathers, but he hopes that she will find him in a better place. Or at least, not end up perched on his grave.

"Ron, we have to leave, too," Hermione says, struck by a sudden thought.

"What?" Ron asks.

"He'll want to ask us about Harry," Hermione explains. "I can't keep him out, Ron, and I doubt you can. He's a Legilimens, too. We can't stay here, it's impossible."

"I..." Ron pauses. "Fine, but I'm not going to see You Know Who and get  _Avada'_ ed for my troubles."

"We'll ask Snape what to do," Hermione says quickly. "I can't say I want to see You Know Who, either, not when I'm Muggleborn."

"He's half blood, he's one to talk," Harry mutters.

Hermione and Ron pack, too, quickly, Hermione shrinking all of their trunks. She keeps Ron's for him, but puts Harry's in his pocket. The only thing left out is the invisibility cloak, which they drape around all three of them. Harry thinks their feet might still be visible, but at this point, it doesn't matter. It's the best they've got.

It is hard, retreating back down to the dungeons. Hermione and Ron have to hold him up. He can't stop shivering and his eyes are blurrier than ever. It feels like he's been drugged and he wonders if he has. If the Headmaster gave him one last little present. It wouldn't surprise him.

"Here," Hermione whispers, standing in front of a tapestry with a woman on it. She is covered in snakes. "I've read all the books on Hogwarts I could find, and they tell the locations of every Head of House's private quarters. This should be it."

"How do we get him to wake up?" Ron hisses. Hermione bites her lip.

"I'm not sure," she admits. She reaches under the tapestry and raps on the wall as hard as she can. The sound is painfully loud to Harry's sensitised ears and he almost falls to the ground, clutching his head.

"Sorry," Hermione whispers.

Footsteps from behind the wall, and Harry's panic spirals up, nearly out of control. What if Dumbledore is with him? What if he finds out? What if Snape laughs in his face and hands him back over, like an unwanted parcel?

"What is it?" Snape's irritable voice asks, as the tapestry is pushed aside. He has clearly thrown on a set of robes over his bedclothes and his eyes narrow when he sees supposedly empty space in front of him. "If this is you, Potter-"

"Not just him," Hermione says bravely, stepping free of the invisibility cloak. Snape's glittering black eyes widen at the sight of her. "We need to talk to you, Professor. In private."

"If you think I'm going to-" Snape begins in biting tones, just as Hermione pulls the cloak off Ron and Harry. At the sight of Harry, bloody and battered, he stops short.

"Where are your glasses, Potter?" He asks.

"In private," Hermione repeats. " _Please_ , Professor."

To Harry's shock, Snape motions the three of them in. To his blurry eyes, the darkened rooms are pleasantly paneled in wood and decorated in greens and browns.

"Sit," Snape orders, pointing at the settee. "And tell me what in the  _hell_ happened to Potter."

"It would be erm-" Hermione fidgets as she settles Harry on the settee. Ron and her have to help prop him up. He's never felt so weak. "It would be easier if you looked into his mind, sir."

"As if I'd ever want to look-" Snape starts to say, then sighs. "Is that all right, Potter? Do you acquiesce?"

"Yes, sir," Harry manages to slur. For yet another time, Snape's wand points between his eyes.

" _Legilimens_ ," the man intones. Harry can feel the man in his mind, ruffling through his memories like a stack of mismatched cards. He can feel his professor's shock when he realises how many Memory Charms have been locked away, now broken into a million little pieces.

What those Memory Charms were hiding.

When Snape withdraws from Harry's mind, he is paler than usual, his mouth set in a tight line.

"I'm so-sorry," Harry stammers, terrified the man doesn't believe him. If he doesn't, he doesn't know what he'll do. Can you kill yourself with your own wand?

"Sorry?" Snape asks icily. "Why should  _you_ be sorry, Potter, you are not the one who has been terrorising and molesting a child for the past five years. I am disgusted, but not with you, Potter. Not with you. You can't stay here. He'll know the charms have failed."

"Harry wants to go to You Know Who," Hermione blurts out.

"That is a terrible idea," Snape says. Harry sags against his friends, emotionally sapped. "However, it might be the  _only_ idea. The Malfoys would only give you up to the Dark Lord at this time. No one in the Order is trustworthy. They may take your side, but the Headmaster has bolstered his reputation in every way possible. Even if they do believe you, they could still inadvertently give your location away by simply looking into his eyes."

"That's what I said," Harry mumbles.

"You show some promise, Potter," Snape says. "I hope that you two realise you cannot stay, either, for the same reason."

"We know," Hermione tells him. "We already packed. I just don't know where Crookshanks is."

"With me," Snape says dryly. "He likes to visit the dungeons at night. It has always driven me mad. It is opportune at a time like this."

"We erm, don't have to go see You Know Who, too, do we?" Ron asks.

"No," Snape says. "It will be difficult enough to persuade him to help Potter. Your presence would only complicate it. I will arrange something. I trust the two of you can be left alone for a short period of time."

"Yes, sir," Hermione assures him, just as Crookshanks sashays out of another room, twining around her legs and purring loudly.

"There is no time like the present," Snape says. "Give me a moment to properly dress, and I will take you to the Dark Lord, Potter." He disappears into the darkness of the hallway.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Hermione whispers. Harry nods, his head still swimming.

"Can't...can't be here," he says. "Maybe- maybe it will be okay."

"You know we love you, don't you?" Hermione says. Harry knows why she's saying it. Just in case-

He doesn't want to think about it.

"I know," Harry murmurs back. "I love you guys, too."

Ron's arms tighten around him, as he feels Hermione's tears dampen his shoulder.

"Say your goodbyes," Snape interrupts them. He looks just as severe as he normally does, buttoning the last button on his robes. "Granger, Weasley, I will leave you here momentarily. Do not leave, do not touch anything, and whatever you do, do not answer the door. If you must hide, hide down there." He nods toward the hallway. "Even the master bedroom, if you must, though I prefer otherwise. Don't make me regret leaving you here."

"You won't, Professor," Hermione says eagerly. "Thank you- thank you so much."

"Let's hope you still have reason to thank me by the morning," he says, his voice somber. Harry stands up, still unsteady. Snape takes his arm.

"You two, keep the cloak," Snape adds, nodding toward the cloak puddled on the settee. "Use it if you need to."

Snape taps his wand briskly on the top of Harry's head and he shivers, feeling a Disillusionment Spell fall over him like running water. Without looking like he is dragging someone in any way, Snape leaves his quarters and walks steadily out of the castle. Harry stumbles along beside him, his body weak and shivery, like he's about to faint.

As soon as they're past the gates, Snape tightens his grip on Harry's arm.

"We're going to Apparate now," he murmurs. "Don't let go."

With a sickening lurch, the world dissolves around Harry. He finds himself on his knees, retching, as the Disillusionment fades. Snape is knocking on the door of what looks like a pureblood manor, and Harry can't make himself get back up. He can feel that his lip has split more, blood painting his chin dark.

Voldemort himself opens the door, his eyes bright red in his shock.

"Potter?" He says. Harry looks up at him, eyes glazed and head spinning.

"I didn't know where else to go," he admits in a thick, shaking voice before everything catches up with him all at once, and he slumps into a dead faint at the man's feet.


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry comes to, he is enormously surprised to find that he is not dead. Or perhaps he is. From what he can discern, he's been placed on a comfortable sofa. Two people are speaking over him in low tones and he thinks one of them is Snape. If that's true, the other must be-

A cold shudder runs through him. Voldemort. He's actually gone through with it and gone to  _Voldemort_. What was he thinking? The man will probably just laugh at his pain,  _Crucio_ him, and finally put him out of his misery. Or hell, finish what Dumbledore started, although Harry has a hard time thinking of the maroon-eyed, noseless creature as someone capable of sexual pleasure. Then again, there's pleasure in holding power over someone, isn't there?

His stomach heaves, but he thankfully manages to keep it down. What he doesn't manage to do is continue convincing the others in the room that he is unconscious.

"We know you're awake, Potter," Snape says. His tone is almost gentle. It hurts, in a way.

Harry reluctantly opens his eyes, peering at the room around him. Snape sighs in exasperation and stalks over to him, holding a pair of round-framed glasses.

"Here," Snape says shoving them roughly into Harry's hands. "They are magical and will adjust to your prescription in a moment."

"Thank you, sir," Harry mumbles as he hooks the glasses over his ears. The sudden difference in visual acuity makes his head ache. He's never been able to see so clearly and he regrets it when he sees Voldemort seated in a wingback armchair next to the sofa, hands folded in his lap.

"You are awake," Voldemort states.

"Er, yeah?" Harry says. He doesn't know what to say. Voldemort hasn't started cursing him yet, but that doesn't say much. He's always liked to play with his victims. Surely this time is no different.

"Severus has told me what brings you here," Voldemort says, his eyes darkening for a moment. "But I believe I would like to hear it from you as well, Mister Potter."

Harry shifts uncomfortably, struggling into a seated position against the arm of the sofa. His throat tightens, as if it refuses to let the words come out.

"They- they say the enemy of my enemy is my friend, don't they?" He asks, his voice wavering. "I erm- I can't stay at Hogwarts."

"Why not?" Voldemort presses.

"Dumbledore, he-" Harry falters. Tears prick his eyes. "I can't-" The words pile up, unsaid, locked behind his teeth. He looks at Snape with pleading eyes.

"Master, I don't believe the boy is allowed to say it," Snape says. "There is something-"

"Hmm," Voldemort says, leaning closer and staring into Harry's eyes. It is distinctly unsettling. "I believe you are right. Very well, Potter. I suppose this will do just as well." He whips out his wand, causing Harry to squeak in surprise, and points it between Harry's eyes.

" _Legilimens_ ," Voldemort says.

It is not gentle. Harry doesn't expect it to be, but his head feels like it's being torn in two as Voldemort goes through his shredded memories. He falls back against the sofa, gasping for air, as Voldemort withdraws from his mind.

"That bastard," Voldemort says calmly. "Potter-  _Harry_. I will not harm you here. Do you understand me?"

Harry stares at him dumbly. What kind of question is that? Of course Harry doesn't understand.  _Neither will live while the other survives_. Despite his desperation in finding  _somewhere_ to go, he hadn't expected much more than a hopefully quick death. This...

"No, I see you do not," Voldemort says, and sighs. "Severus. Please take our guest to a guest room. I shall inform the others that I have personally approved his stay. Then you should return to Hogwarts. You do not want Albus questioning your whereabouts."

"As you wish," Snape says, making a slight bow. He helps Harry to his feet, watching him attentively for any swaying or drooping, then leads him out of the room.

"Sir?" Harry asks, as soon as they're in the hallway. It is shockingly opulent, like no place Harry's ever been before. "What just happened?"

"The Dark Lord has seen what's been done to you and is appropriately horrified on your behalf, Potter," Snape says. "You know he has no love for Albus Dumbledore. This will- I do not know what this will make him do."

"Oh," Harry says, looking down at the plush carpet. "I don't- I don't understand..."

"You are traumatised, of course you don't," Snape says, guiding Harry into an equally opulent bedroom. The bed is massive, coming with a rich blue canopy. Harry stares at it in awe.

"I am afraid I must leave you," Snape says. "I will put your friends in a safe place. You will not come to harm here, by the Dark Lord's hand or anyone else's. His word is law here. I will come back to see you as soon as I reasonably can."

"Okay," Harry mumbles. He suddenly, desperately does not want his Potions professor to leave. He doesn't  _like_ the man, of course. He's bullied Harry his entire career at Hogwarts. But he's the only safe reference point Harry knows and at least he's never decided to bend Harry over the slick end of his bed and-

"Whatever you are thinking of right now, stop it," Snape says, his voice rough. "Do not dwell on it, Potter. I know that is a difficult task, but you can master it, at least for now. The Dark Lord will probably need to investigate your mind later. There is some...obstruction in it that I do not like."

"Why can't you?" Harry asks plaintively. He never thought he would be willingly asking Snape to invade his mind. Surely this is a sign that he's already dead. He welcomes it.

"The Dark Lord is better at mind magic of that nature than I am," Snape says. "Go to bed, Potter."

And with that, he is gone in a swirl of black robes.

Harry clambers up into the bed, suddenly achingly cold. He leaves the lights on. It feels safer that way. In the dark, it's far too easy to imagine the grandfatherly Headmaster standing over him, eyes twinkling brighter than sparks of fire and wrinkly hands reaching out, ready to tighten around Harry's throat.

He shivers, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes and wetting his cheeks. In a way, this is scarier than a quick  _Avada Kedavra_ on the doorstep. This is the unknown, and Harry is petrified of it.

When he finally falls asleep, it is a thin, uneasy doze, easily broken by the sounds of the house settling around him and his own nightmares. Dumbledore swooping down on him, wand plunging into his heart.  _It's for the greater good,_ repeated over and over like a broken record. Snape laughing at him, sneering at him, telling him he's only gotten what he deserved, before digging his fingers into the bruised flesh of Harry's shoulder and dragging him to the Headmaster's office. Voldemort laughing that high, cold, cruel laugh that Harry remembers so well from his green light dreams, and that same green light arrowing straight for Harry...

Needless to say, he doesn't sleep well and when he opens his eyes for good, his eyelids are gummy and crusted, and sunlight is streaming through the windows.

And a house elf is standing at the foot of the bed.

Harry squawks, jolting back against the pillows.

"I'm sorry, sirs, I didn't mean to scare you," the elf squeaks, looking like she's ready to bash her head into the nearest bedpost.

"It's okay," he reassures her, as quickly as he can. "I just didn't expect you. Erm, what are you doing here?"

"I am Rosy," the elf announces proudly. "I is your personal house elf! Master assigned me to you!"

"My personal house elf?" Harry echoes, mind blank. Rosy nods, twisting her tea towel in her hands.

"I can helps you with anything you needs," Rosy assures him. "Do you needs breakfast?"

His stomach growls and he feels warmth climb up his face.

"I erm, I guess I do," he admits.

"Does sir want to have breakfast in bed or go to the dining room?" Rosy asks. Harry considers it for a moment. Stay in bed, where no one else is, or go to the dining room with Merlin knows who (but likely a bunch of Death Eaters who have constantly tried to kill him and his friends). Well, that's a no-brainer.

"In bed, please," Harry tells her. The house elf's eyes bulge out of her head when she hears the word 'please' but to Harry's relief, she doesn't say anything, just pops out of the room. In a few minutes, she's back, balancing a tray across his blankets.

"Thank you, Rosy," Harry says. It's a full English breakfast and he knows he won't be able to eat even half of it, but it's the thought that counts.

"Just ask for mes and I come, okay?" She says with a bright smile and vanishes again, leaving Harry alone to eat.

It's just when he's finishing that Voldemort comes to the door. All thoughts of hunger flee and Harry pushes the tray away, looking at Voldemort with wide green eyes. His heartbeat thumps in his ears.

"Good morning, Harry," Voldemort says. He frowns when he sees how much is left on the tray. "Not hungry?"

"I erm, I usually can't eat very much," Harry mumbles. "Sorry. It was good, though."

"I hoped that we could talk privately, Harry," Voldemort continues. "Would you be amenable to that?"

"I...I guess," Harry stammers. He's not, but he's also acutely aware that it's bloody  _Voldemort_ standing in the doorway, and he's not about to argue with a Dark Lord. That's not bravery, that's just stupidity.

"I'll send Rosy in to help you change," Voldemort says. "Severus and I attempted to heal the wounds we could see last night, but if there are more, please let Severus or I know." Dazed, Harry reaches a hand up, brushing against his unmarked lip. He didn't even notice last night.

"Thank you," Harry says. Voldemort smiles. It looks odd on his face.

"I will see you soon, Harry," Voldemort says, then glides away.

Somehow, Harry feels like spewing his breakfast all over the duvet.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry hovers in the doorway of Voldemort's study, his heart fluttering in his throat. Rosy has helped him into robes that look like they would be more at home on Malfoy's body than his own scrawny, scarred one, but he refuses to complain. Besides, it makes him feel more in control, having so many layers of fabric to conceal him. If he could charm them all to stay wrapped around his skin no matter what, he would. 

"Ah, Harry," Voldemort says, looking up from the parchment strewn across his desk. It is shockingly incongruous to see the man who's tried to kill him so many times poring over paperwork like some Muggle accountant. "Come in." He indicates a plush, brocade chair across from his desk and Harry crosses the room to perch in it, willing his knees to stop shaking.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Voldemort asks. Harry has heard Voldemort's voice express many emotions. Gloating amusement, thin, cold hatred, anger like the barely banked heat of a furnace. 

He has never heard Voldemort express  _concern_ and it makes his eyes hurt.

"I-" He can't finish the sentence. He's not all right. He can't confess that to Voldemort. His  _enemy_. 

"That's a rhetorical question, I suppose," Voldemort says, not forcing him to answer. "Of course you're not all right." He remains silent for a moment, thin lips pursed. "What I am about to tell you will not leave this room. Do you understand me?"

Harry hears the implicit threat softly woven throughout the words and nods jerkily. Voldemort's promise last night will no longer apply if he spills what the Dark Lord has decided fit to tell him. The thought makes his palms sweat. Funny, how willing he was to die last night. With his mind no longer splintering into a million pieces, he doesn't know how he feels anymore.

"You are not the only one," Voldemort says quietly. Harry stares at him in shock, mouth gaping like a fool. Voldemort laughs, but the sound has no humour in it. He rolls a quill between thin, pale fingers.

"When I was a student at Hogwarts, when I was known as Tom Riddle," he speaks the name with sneering disgust. "Albus was not Headmaster yet. He is the one who found me, who brought me to Hogwarts, but he had no trust for me. Perhaps that is where it started. I was thirteen. I see his proclivities have become more depraved." Harry knows what he's referring to.  _I was only eleven..._

"He used the same trick on me," Voldemort continues. "Perhaps he thinks those Memory Charms still hold. I broke them myself when I was sixteen, as well. They...cemented what I decided to do. I am a natural Occlumens. He had no hope of discovering that  _Obliviate_ did not hold the power he hoped for."

"I- I'm sorry," Harry whispers. His voice cannot stop trembling. He doesn't know how to feel, sitting across from the man who  _murdered his parents_ , the man who's tortured and killed more people than Harry can dream of-

But he knows, intimately, how Harry feels.

"Alike, aren't we?" Voldemort says. "Only now do I know how much. When I possessed you in the Ministry, I was too focused on my own goals or I would have... _noticed_ the pattern. He does not like to vary it."

"Has he- has he done it to other people?" Harry asks. Voldemort nods, just once.

"He is particular about his victims," Voldemort says casually. "I suppose he has a type." 

"Did you ever..." Harry falters. No, he supposes that Voldemort wouldn't have told anyone. To admit that he wasn't in control of his own body, that someone else had taken his power away... Harry doesn't know that much about his enemy, but he knows that much.

"No, I did not tell anyone," Voldemort says, finishing Harry's thought. "Who would I tell? His accomplishments have racked up over the years, but he was still a shining star at Hogwarts, someone people looked up to and admired. I might have been respected, but that respect would have faded away like morning mist if I had tried to bring his crimes to light."

"Why did you frame Hagrid?" Harry asks suddenly. "For the basilisk. Why did you frame him?"

"I didn't necessarily intend for him to be expelled and his wand snapped," Voldemort says, his voice calm. "But I couldn't let them know it was me, now could I? Besides, Hagrid always had dangerous creatures running around as pets. He doesn't understand that such creatures are dangerous and cannot be kept in a school. Surely you remember the Acromantula colony in the Forbidden Forest?"

Harry shudders, his skin crawling. He remembers Aragog all too well and he wishes that he didn't. Voldemort watches the emotions play out over his face, his own face passive.

"You see," Voldemort says. "And these Blast-Ended Skrewts. Illegal cross-breeding. The hippogriff in, what was it?"

"Third year," Harry says, his voice strained. "But there wasn't anything wrong with Buckbeak, it's Malfoy's fault he got hurt, he didn't pay attention-"

"I know," Voldemort says, cutting him off. Harry stares, surprised. "Do you think I'm not aware of what my followers and their children get up to?" He asks, sounding amused. "Draco Malfoy deserved every bit he got. But Hagrid shouldn't have started with hippogriffs, not for thirteen-year-olds."

"Hagrid is my friend," Harry says. Voldemort inclines his head.

"I never said he shouldn't be," Voldemort tells him. "Now." He purses his lips again, drumming a quill against the polished wood of his desk. "What to do with you..."

Harry watches him, his mouth dry. It's not like he can defend himself against Voldemort at these close quarters. He has his wand, but can he reach it fast enough? So what if he does? He's only sixteen, Voldemort's been alive for decades and knows more Dark magic than all of his followers combined (save for perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange).

"Calm down, I'm not going to kill you," Voldemort snaps, irritable. "I told you that you would come to no harm here and that promise stands. But do you intend to stay here forever? Join me? Do you still want to kill me?"

"I- I don't know," Harry admits in a croak. "You- you killed my parents-"

"If it is worth anything, I apologise," Voldemort says, flooring him. "I was...not myself. I am still not myself, but I have been working on it. Have you ever heard of such a thing as a Horcrux, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry says warily. "Dumbledore- he's been telling me about them. About  _you_." For a moment, fury flashes across Voldemort's face.

"Luckily for the old fool, I have all of them back but two," Voldemort says. "Oh yes, I do mean multiple. And that is where my previous statement comes into play." Harry stares at him in confusion.

"To create a Horcrux, you must split your soul," Voldemort explains. "I knew that. I did not realise how...unstable it makes you. How unbalanced. By the time I came to Godric's Hollow, I was quite...insane. It has only been in the last year or so that I have attempted to bring my Horcruxes together and reunite my soul."

"But you-" Harry gapes at him. "One's destroyed," is all he can think to say. "The diary..."

"Oh yes, I know of Lucius Malfoy's idiocy," Voldemort grinds out. "Giving out  _my_ things to snot-nosed school children, because of a petty quarrel. He knows better now." The smile that curls Voldemort's lips makes Harry's insides ice over.

"I managed to retrieve one, thanks to Dumbledore's Order," Voldemort continues, chuckling. "Mundungus Fletcher. Do you know him?" Harry wrinkles his nose.

"Unfortunately," he mutters.

"Tried to sell  _my_ necklace, but I happened to be in the right place at the right time," Voldemort murmurs. "Don't worry, Harry. He is still alive. Much to Dumbledore's displeasure, I imagine, should the illustrious Headmaster ever discover what's slipped his grasp. He stole it from 12 Grimmauld Place."

"That's-" Harry gasps, cutting himself off.

"Oh, I know what it is, Harry," Voldemort says dryly. "I'm not a fool. I know that your relatives live at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, as well."

"Please don't hurt them," Harry blurts out. He doesn't know why exactly he's pleading for the Dursleys' sake. They've always treated him like shit. But the thought of more people dying because of him-

He doesn't realise that his breathing has sped up until Voldemort's hands cover his, cold and smooth against his skin.

"Breathe," Voldemort orders calmly. "If it bothers you so much, I will not harm your relatives, Harry. Do you care for them so much then?"

"No," Harry admits in a tiny, shamed whisper. "But I can't- people can't die because of me, please-"

"Why don't you care for your relatives, Harry?" Voldemort asks, maroon eyes piercing into green. This time, without speaking a word, Harry can feel the man slip into the turmoil of his thoughts. It is gentler this time. He watches, a helpless bystander, as scenes from the Dursleys flash before his eyes. The cupboard beneath the stairs. Flicking spiders off his socks so he can put them on. Uncle Vernon's belt. Harry Hunting. Aunt Petunia aiming a soapy frying pan at his head. The constant patter of "freak."  _Don't try any of your freaky stuff. No funny business._ Being locked in the garden shed overnight, and how he'd shivered so hard when he came inside, his aunt got worried and forced him into a warm bath. It was one of the only properly warm baths or showers he ever had there.

Asking Dumbledore  _"Can I stay over the summer, sir?_ " The crushing disappointment when the Headmaster said no. Harry never asked again.

When Voldemort finally pulls free of his mind, Harry's eyes are blurry with tears and his throat hurts.

"I see," Voldemort says. He looks like he is as furious as Harry has ever seen him, but strangely, it doesn't look like it's aimed at  _him_. "Are you sure then, Harry? I could make them suffer." One thin finger traces down Harry's cheek, his hand cupping Harry's chin. "They could suffer for all that they've done to you, a wizarding child placed in their care. Who placed you there, Harry?"

Harry closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"Albus Dumbledore," he whispers.

"Yes," Voldemort hisses. "It always comes back to him, does it not? I am sure he has told you that I, too, asked to stay." Dumbly, Harry nods. "During the second world war," Voldemort continues. "I never knew if I would wake up the next morning. Or if I did, that I would be in one piece."

"That sounds awful," Harry manages to say. Voldemort leans back in his chair, the passive mask falling back over his face.

"I need to think," he says. "We are at Malfoy Manor, by the way. Lucius and Narcissa have been informed that you are my guest and under my protection and they will see to it that Draco knows when he returns home, as well."

Harry remembers the last interactions he's had with Lucius Malfoy and winces. This is going to be awkward. Even more so if they have any inkling about  _why_ he's here. He doesn't want them to know.

But he also doesn't want them to assume that he's gone Dark. He hasn't. He doesn't want to hurt his friends or follow Voldemort.

But he can't follow Dumbledore anymore...

"I have not told them what happened to you," Voldemort continues. "Save that Dumbledore has grievously harmed you and that you do not wish to talk about it. They will leave it at that." The words are precisely bitten off, and Harry has no illusions about what might happen to the Malfoys if they decide to press him on the issue.

"Bellatrix-" he blurts out, struck by a sudden thought. "She's not- is she here?"

"No," Voldemort says, and Harry sags in relief. "She is currently stationed elsewhere."

"She killed Sirius," Harry says, his throat tight with unshed tears. "And Neville's one of my friends."

"The Longbottom boy?" Voldemort questions. Harry nods. "I will keep her away from you," he decides. "For now, why don't you greet the Malfoys? Rosy will take you to them."

"Erm, okay," Harry says, anxiety making his stomach flip-flop. He can recognise a dismissal when he hears one, though, and stands up as Rosy pops into the room, bobbing a deep curtsey in Voldemort's direction.

"They is in the library, sir," Rosy informs him, leading him out of the room. "They is very excited to see you!"

 _I doubt that,_ Harry can't help but think.


	4. Chapter 4

"Harry," Narcissa says warmly, standing up and coming towards him. He has no time to think before she bends over him, pressing light, cool kisses to his cheeks. "It's a pleasure to see you." Harry has a hard time believing that as she leads him toward the table Lucius lounges at.

 _He_ , at least, still has carefully banked anger hidden in pale grey eyes. No matter what his wife says, Harry can tell Lucius is still displeased to have Harry Potter under his roof and not in his dungeon.

"Potter," Lucius says, as civil as he can probably manage it. He inclines his head. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor." 

"The Dark Lord has told us that you will be staying here indefinitely," Narcissa says. "Do you have your things? I can-"

"Erm, yeah," Harry says, his face reddening. "My school trunk, it's in my room, you have a really nice house, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Please, call me Narcissa," she says. Harry notices no such offer comes from Lucius. He doesn't expect it. "Would you like a tour?"

"Sure," Harry agrees at once. The library is magnificent (he knows that Hermione would be in raptures over it), but it is awkward to stand there, shifting foot to foot, while Lucius does his best to  _Crucio_ him with his eyes.

To his relief, only Narcissa takes him on the tour. Lucius murmurs something about business and kisses Narcissa's cheek.

"That man," Narcissa says lightly, looking in the direction he's vanished and shaking her head. "He's just been stressed." Somehow Harry doubts that's the full story. He  _knows_ he's made an enemy out of the Malfoy patriarch, he's not stupid. 

"These are the gardens," Narcissa says, pushing open one of the glass doors and inviting him out onto a marble patio. Despite the chill that had met him when he had arrived, the gardens are bathed in warmth. Swans and peacocks strut across the velvety green lawn, and there is a profusion of colourful flowers. It is nothing like Aunt Petunia's rigourously ordered flower beds, and the thought brings him peace.

"I love them," he says sincerely. Narcissa looks down at him, a genuine smile tipping the corners of her mouth.

"Would you like to sit for a moment?" She inquires. Harry hesitates, then nods. He's not as afraid of an interrogation as he would normally be, not after Voldemort's threats. It still makes his breath stutter in his lungs for a moment after he sits down at an ornate glass table. A sculpture of a glass swan rises up from the centre, elegantly fluted.

"I know it is difficult to believe," Narcissa says after a moment. "But I truly am glad to have you here."

"Why?" Harry asks. Warmth climbs up his neck and spreads out to his ears. That was a rude question, does he  _want_ her to change her mind? But she doesn't get angry with him, just sighs.

"Draco," she tells him. "You're just a child. A child like my son. And I don't believe Albus Dumbledore has treated you like a child one day in your life."

"No," Harry admits. From the Philosopher's Stone to the debacle with the prophecy, Harry has always been forced to go it alone. "He put me with Muggles," he says suddenly. He doesn't know why he's telling her this, but suddenly, he _wants_ to with fierce, aching intensity. Narcissa's pale eyes widen minutely. "My mum's sister. She hates magic. She was- she was jealous of my mum because my mum got her letter and my aunt never did. My uncle hates it, too. Calls it freaky. They tried to- to stamp the freakiness out."

"That is despicable," Narcissa hisses. "To treat a wizarding child that way-  _any_ child that way!" Harry flinches a little at her outburst. "I apologise," she says smoothly, seeing his reaction. "But you must understand. It is impossible to abuse the magic out of a magical child. Many have tried and all have failed. Several have died at the hands of their child's accidental magic, protecting them the only way it knew how. Your relatives are lucky they are not long dead and gone."

"I Apparated onto the school's roof once," he says. "I didn't know that's what it was, but it must have been."

"You are extraordinarily lucky you managed in one piece," Narcissa tells him. "It is rare that accidental magic triggers Apparition, and even rarer for it to trigger successful Apparition. May I- well, may I inquire what you were doing to end up on the roof?"

"Escaping my cousin," he says glumly. "He erm- he and his friends don't like me. They bully me a lot. Call it Harry Hunting."

Despite the fact that her and her husband's previous actions could likely fall under the same name, Narcissa shakes her head, glowing with cold fury.

"Did your teachers do nothing?" She demands.

"Erm, not really," Harry says. "They all liked Dudley, not me. And er- my aunt and uncle would tell them I'm mental and couldn't be believed and I was a delinquent child. So." He shrugs.

"They should have investigated for themselves," Narcissa says firmly, with a sharp nod of her head. Her platinum blonde hair scarcely moves. "Surely with proper investigation, they would have seen the kind of child your cousin was."

"The school counselor did once," Harry reminisces. "I told her about home and all, but she er- got sacked when she tried to help."

"Terrible," Narcissa says. "The Muggle world is a terrible place."

"To be fair, so far Hogwarts' track record isn't great either," Harry reminds her. "For me, anyway. I mean- first year, there was a troll and Quirrell was possessed, second year, there was the basilisk-" Narcissa winces at the reminder of her husband's slip-up. "Third year was better, but there were Dementors everywhere, fourth year was the Tournament and-" He swallows hard, past the lump in his throat. Cedric's death burns anew.  _It's my fault._ "And fifth year was Umbridge. And Sir-" He chokes up again. 

"And Dumbledore," Narcissa finishes shrewdly. "Do not worry, Harry, I won't press you for details and neither will my husband. My Lord was very clear on his instructions that you do not wish to talk about it."

"Thanks," Harry mumbles.

"What did you mean of Umbridge?" Narcissa asks, obviously curious. "Dolores Umbridge? I know that she was appointed by Cornelius-"

Slowly, shakily, Harry extends his hand.  _I must not tell lies_ gleams white and scarred in his painful scrawl. 

Narcissa audibly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"That's the work of a Blood Quill," she breathes.

"Erm, yeah?" Harry says, hesitant.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but Lucius needs to see this," Narcissa says. Before he can muster a word of protest, she has sent some kind of wispy message to her husband (it resembles a Patronus, but not really, and Harry wonders if that's because she  _can't_ create a Patronus). Lucius appears several minutes later, slightly disheveled.

"What is it?" He snaps.

"Harry, show Lucius your hand," Narcissa says. Confused, Harry extends his hand, showing off the scars left by Umbridge's unending detentions. Lucius's mouth thins into a tight line.

"That's a Blood Quill," Lucius murmurs. "Who used a Blood Quill on you, Potter?"

"Umbridge," Harry says, still thoroughly baffled by the flurry of activity he's somehow provoked. Surely they knew she had a Blood Quill? Fudge was practically bought by the Malfoys, after all. And Draco was in the Inquisatorial Squad.

"Did she use it on other students, Potter?" Lucius asks.

"Erm, yeah," Harry says. "Not the Slytherins, though, I don't think."  _Since I'm sure you only care about Draco,_ he adds privately in his head.

"Lucius, do you think-" Narcissa starts, giving him a beseeching look.

"I will see if he is in the mood to be disturbed," Lucius promises, then strides off, radiating anger. 

"Who?" Harry blurts out. "I don't understand-"

"My Lord," Narcissa says. "A Ministry official employing a Blood Quill against underage students is a serious offense, Harry. It's an Azkaban-worthy offense. Did Dumbledore not notice? None of your teachers?"

"I tried to tell Professor McGonagall, but she said to try not to antagonise Umbridge," Harry says. "She didn't understand about the-" He nods toward the offending scars on the top of his hand. "I antagonise Umbridge by breathing, though, so."

"I have long despised her," Narcissa murmurs. Her tone is glacial. 

"Draco didn't seem to mind her," Harry mumbles. Narcissa looks at him, taking a deep breath.

"Draco is a Slytherin, Harry," Narcissa says. "I am sure he took the route most advantageous to him, and one that prevented harm."

"One that didn't have her ready to  _Crucio_ him, too, I bet," Harry mutters under his breath. Unfortunately, Narcissa still hears him.

"She did what?" Narcissa inquires. Now she sounds dangerous, and far too like her sister for comfort.

"She didn't  _do_ it," Harry hastens to reassure her. This has all spiraled far out of control and he doesn't like it. He never meant to talk this much or spill so many things about his life, especially not to  _Narcissa Malfoy_ , but it's been a long time since he's felt like he could just  _talk_ to someone who wasn't Ron or Hermione. Molly Weasley would gladly do it, he knows that, but he feels too much like an intrusion, like he is hovering on the edge of the family he desperately wants to be a part of.

"What prevented her?" Narcissa asks.

"Hermione," Harry says. "She erm- yeah," he finishes lamely, not feeling capable of going into that spiel. Or mentioning the centaurs. He doesn't know what they did to Umbridge, but he has a hard time caring.

Footsteps sound behind them and Harry twists around, expecting Lucius again, only to come face to face with a frighteningly angry Voldemort. His eyes glitter maroon, and Harry can practically  _see_ the magic crackling around him.

"Show me," he commands. Harry debates how prudent it would be to be a smart-arse and ask what. Common sense wins out, for once, and he holds out his hand once more, the white scars emblazoned into his skin catching the light.

_I must not tell lies._

"Lies, Harry?" Voldemort murmurs. This voice is more frightening than if he shouted. Harry thinks he might prefer if Voldemort shouted.

"Saying you were back," Harry says. His throat tightens when he remembers the graveyard, remembers Voldemort saying  _Kill the spare_ , the thud as Cedric hits the ground...

"I see," Voldemort says, thankfully not going into more details.

"Why- why do you care?" Harry blurts out. It might be suicidal, but Harry can't bring himself to care. Everything he's ever known about the world has gone completely topsy-turvy in two days. 

"Because you're under my protection now," Voldemort says, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"But you- that doesn't make any  _sense_ ," Harry protests. 

"It will," Voldemort assures him. "Perhaps it is time I investigate your mind more closely, like Severus suggested."

Harry sends a helpless look towards Narcissa.

"We will finish the house tour another time," she murmurs, standing up in one graceful movement. 

"Okay," Harry starts to say, as Voldemort's hand comes down onto his wrist and he is, quite literally, towed away.


	5. Chapter 5

This time, Voldemort leads Harry to a different room. Harry prefers the study. This one is small and cramped, and too near what he imagines the dungeons for comfort. Voldemort seems to read the uncertainty in Harry's eyes, because he tilts Harry's chin up with one pallid hand.

"This is the best room for this," he informs Harry. "It is sealed to prevent stray magic from breaking through. I do not foresee that coming from this little mental excursion, but I don't take chances, Harry." Before Harry can respond, Voldemort presses him down into the narrow sofa (still more elegant than Aunt Petunia could ever  _dream_ of) and sits in a chair in front of him.

"Relax," Voldemort commands. "As much as you can."

"That's a little difficult," Harry mumbles, but he does his best to obey. After all, pissing off a Dark Lord who's about to rummage around in your head sounds like a stupendously bad idea.

"This is similar to Legilimency," Voldemort murmurs, leaning far too close to Harry's face for comfort. His breath stirs Harry's fringe, and Harry wonders if Voldemort can see the lightning bolt. "But it is more...intimate, I suppose you could say. It is more than your thoughts and memories, it is the core of you as a person."

"That...sounds bad," Harry manages to say. Even when he trusted Dumbledore, he doesn't think he would ever let the man rummage around in his self like that. Much less the man who had killed his parents. Killed so many people. Tried to kill him.

"It is not," Voldemort says. "It is not even Dark, if that concerns you. It is a neutral spell. Neither Light nor Dark. I doubt Albus can perform it. He's always been so fond of bludgeoning the mind. This requires a delicate touch."

"So erm-" Harry swallows, his mouth dry. "What are you going to do?"

"Touch your head," Voldemort says. "I do not need my wand, or this would be a trickier process. You will feel me in your head. It should not hurt. If it does, tell me at once. It will enlighten me as to where this obstruction is and what else Albus may have done to you."

"He could have done  _more_?" Harry blurts out, horrified.

"He has done more, to others," Voldemort says, as casually as if he were referencing the weather. "Some still work for him. Many in the Order are trapped in his web of deceit. It is not so easy as showing one the memories of what he has done to you, when they have such magic laced through their thoughts."

"That's sick," Harry mutters. He feels his own stomach lurch as Voldemort lifts his hands, settling them on either side of Harry's temples.

"Breathe," Voldemort reminds him. "This may take some time."

"Okay," Harry says shakily. He closes his eyes, unwilling to stare in maroon any longer, and Voldemort's fingers tuck some of his unruly hair back behind his ears.

"I am starting now," Voldemort warns him. The Dark Lord murmurs something incomprehensible to Harry. It sounds like some kind of spell, but like nothing he's ever heard before.

When he opens his eyes again, he's standing in his mindscape, the one he barely managed to attain when taking Occlumency lessons with Snape. Voldemort is standing next to him.

"Good," Voldemort says. He has a pleased smile flickering across his face. In this, he looks much like he did in his school years, save for his eyes. Harry feels marginally better about this. It is easier to think about Tom Riddle examining his head than the noseless, snake-faced Voldemort.

"Your mindscape is pitiable, Harry," Voldemort says, looking around. "So disorganised... It was not like this when I possessed you. I imagine it is the work of the past few days?"

"Erm, yeah, I think so," Harry says. His ears feel very warm and his face is flushed. "Sorry."

"No need to apologise, Harry," Voldemort murmurs. "In some ways, it makes it easier. Your mind currently has few defenses. It is good that you did not choose to stay at Hogwarts. You could have never kept him out of your mind and he would be furious if he discovered that you broke through his Memory Charms."

"And Hermione and Ron know," Harry says, shivering. "I don't want them to be hurt."

"They could stay here," Voldemort tells him.

"Professor Snape said he'd find somewhere safe," Harry says. "Besides, erm- Hermione's Muggleborn, I don't think-"

"I do not  _hate_ Muggleborns, contrary to Dumbledore's beliefs," Voldemort interrupts calmly. "Besides, Lucius and Draco's repartee about her and her high scores can be entertaining. It seems that Draco does not appreciate being shown up by a Muggleborn."

Harry hides a snort behind one hand. He remembers his second year, when he accidentally found himself falling out of a fireplace in Knockturn Alley. Draco was complaining about  _him_ to his father then. Did he always whine like that?

"Interesting," Voldemort says. "Knockturn Alley? The Saviour of the Wizarding World, in Borgin and Burkes. That would have been an interesting story splashed across the Daily Prophet, I'm sure."

Harry goes scarlet when he realises that Voldemort can understand what he's thinking about.

"It was an accident," he says. "I was going shopping with the Weasleys and I'd never used the Floo before, so-"

"Someone should have accompanied you," Voldemort interrupts him. "It is what they do with very young children, as well as those who have never used the Floo. It's cramped, but I imagine infinitely preferable to ending up Merlin knows where."

"Oh," Harry says, staring down at the cracked floor. It reminds him of some bits in the dungeon where the stone has started to crumble. "I- I didn't know that."

"The Weasleys do," Voldemort says. "Or if they don't, they are even more backwards in pureblood customs than I previously assumed."

"Hey-" Harry starts hotly. Voldemort shakes his head.

"Let's get to the task at hand, Harry," he says.

"Oh," Harry says, feeling stupid. "Right."

"We need to go deeper," Voldemort tells him. "This is the surface of your mind. Oh, there are cracks from beneath, I can see the Memory Charms Dumbledore has placed on you, smoking and shattered. But I already know what lies beneath _those_. There's something else-" He trails off, and paces behind Harry. "This way."

Harry is yanked nearly off his feet by an invisible tether, dragging behind a purposeful Voldemort, who pokes and prods at things Harry doesn't have a name for. Some are crumpled, like Christmas wrapping paper. Others are strange geometric shapes that twirl in the air or make soft, musical sounds when Voldemort's fingers brush against them.

Then Voldemort comes to a door.

It's a simple door. The key stands rigid in the lock, an old-fashioned key that reminds Harry of the key he had to find in first year, when he and his friends were trying to get to the Philosopher's Stone before Quirrell. The wood is plain and slightly scratched and dented, as if to show it's been worn.

"Interesting," Voldemort murmurs. "I wonder-" He places his hand on the door, palm up against the wood.

Searing pain nearly blinds Harry, bringing him to his knees. He can't draw in a breath even to scream, can only struggle to pant, as it feels like fire has begun to lick over every exposed inch of skin.

Then Voldemort rips his hand away from the door and Harry collapses fully, tears standing in his eyes as the pain ceases.

"It erm, that hurt," Harry says, his voice but a thread. Voldemort laughs thinly.

"I can see that," Voldemort says. "Very well. It is this then. The obstruction, or at least one of them. I know Dumbledore too well to assume that he has attempted to destroy your very being in only one way."

Harry swallows as Voldemort helps him to his feet. He can't stop trembling, like he's been through a bad fever.

"You will have to help me open it," Voldemort says in his ear. "It may hurt again. You must push past it, Harry. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Harry grits out. He doesn't want to do it, but he doesn't want this here, either. It feels...wrong. The memory of the pain sizzles across his nerve endings and he winces.

"On the count of three, Harry," Voldemort says, interlacing his fingers with Harry's. It is oddly intimate and makes blood rush to Harry's face.

"Three," Voldemort says, and suddenly, Harry feels his hand on the key, Voldemort turning it with him. Fire boils his blood, forces a soundless scream out of him, but Voldemort's grip is implacable, relentless, and the door is opened, inch by inch, until finally, they are able to peer inside.

A perfect replica of Dumbledore's office, save for the man himself, greets them.

"Of course," Voldemort hisses. "This makes perfect sense..."

"Er, it does?" Harry asks, blinking at him. The man still hasn't let go of his hand, but at the moment, Harry almost finds comfort in it.

"Unable to speak about it to a professor...I would wager one of your little friends did most of the talking," Voldemort muses. Harry nods.

"Snape- Professor Snape, he Legilimised me," Harry says.

"He's likely the only member on staff readily capable," Voldemort says. "And the person you are least likely to confide in."

"I only did because you're the only person I could think to go to," Harry admits, his voice a shamed mumble. "I- I figured maybe at least if I died, you'd- you'd make it quick."

"We don't have to fight, Harry," Voldemort whispers. "Think on it, would you? For now-" He grimaces. "Let's see what Albus has been doing with his little office."

And he steps briskly forward.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry looks around in trepidation. Now that he is standing here, he can tell that it isn't a perfect replica. There are cracks in the walls, and all the previous Headmasters' portraits are frozen, stiff and lifeless, on the walls. Fawkes's perch, too, lies barren. His pulse hammers in his ears and his breath stutters. He doesn't want to be here. He knows that as surely as he knows his own name. Voldemort looks at him and frowns.

"I think I'll keep hold of you while we're here," Voldemort decides, securing Harry's hand more firmly. "I don't wish to find out what would happen if I let go and you remained here." Despite the nerviness that flows over him every time Voldemort so much as brushes past him, Harry is wholly in agreement.

Papers lay scattered over the enormous desk and this is where Voldemort chooses to investigate further. His lips thin when he glances over the contents.

"What?" Harry asks anxiously.

"More hidden memories," Voldemort says shortly, picking up the parchment and sliding it into his pocket. "I will peruse these later. From what I can tell, that does not need to remain in this room. This is the easy bit, though. Blatant. What has he hidden, I wonder?" Voldemort taps the index finger of his free hand against his chin as he thinks.

"Not the desk," Voldemort decides. "It is too easy a gamble. Dumbledore has likely set up a variety of traps and puzzles to get through, only to end up with a handful of nothing. No, he will have hidden it somewhere else."

He starts looking through the books scattered everywhere, skimming them carelessly and tossing them to one side. Harry looks around, not knowing what to look for, but figuring two pairs of eyes have to be better than one. Right?

A glint catches Harry's eye and he pauses. His stomach sloshes as he realises the glint is coming from the bottom of Fawkes's cage, in the newspaper that always lines the base.

"There," Harry says, pointing. Voldemort's eyes light up an unsettling shade of red as he glides over to the perch.

"Thank you, Harry," he murmurs. "That  _is_ clever. But you- you have a Seeker's eye, don't you? I'm told you play Seeker in Quidditch..." Harry goes red out to his ears as he mumbles out an affirmative.

With thin, pale fingers, Voldemort opens the cage, slipping free something slickly golden. His eyes widen in shock and he crushes Harry to him so hard, Harry goes breathless.

"What?" Harry manages to stammer out, his words lost in the fabric of Voldemort's robes. His free hand beats weakly at Voldemort's shoulder until reluctantly, Voldemort releases him.

"I will kill that man," Voldemort hisses. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Harry realises the man is speaking in Parseltongue. "I will kill him and all who follow him, I will-"

" _Why?_ " Harry nearly shouts. Voldemort starts, tucking the gold thing in his pocket and turning back towards Harry.

"You are more than my enemy, Harry Potter," Voldemort murmurs. Confusion buzzes in Harry's mind, as Voldemort lifts a shaking hand, pushing Harry's fringe back. When he traces the lightning etched into Harry's skin, Harry's knees nearly buckle.

"You are my Horcrux," Voldemort whispers.

It is all too much for Harry. Despite being in his mind, being in whatever fresh hell this distorted Headmaster's office is, hand locked with Voldemort's...

Harry faints.

He comes to with a damp washrag placed over his forehead. He blinks, eyesight blurry, and when his eyes finally focus, they find Voldemort, crouched next to him and stroking his arm almost reverently.

"You are awake," Voldemort says, lifting his head. "I thought of removing us from your mind, but we are not done yet and I did not think you wanted a second round."

"No," Harry admits shakily. He struggles to sit up and Voldemort is there, supporting his back. "You- you said I'm a-"

"A Horcrux," Voldemort says. " _My_ Horcrux. I am unsure how. I believe that when my Killing Curse rebounded, a piece of my soul must have latched itself to you." He taps Harry's scar again. "Dumbledore knows. He  _must_ \- Harry." Voldemort's voice turns serious. "Will you tell me the prophecy? It is critical I know it."

"I-" Harry swallows. His mouth is so dry, it almost hurts. "Is that- I mean-"

"Harry, do you really think me knowing the prophecy will put you in harm's way?" Voldemort murmurs.  _Yes,_ Harry thinks. "You are my Horcrux, Harry. You have a part of me. It would be foolish to hurt you. I would have never hurt you, if I knew..."

Harry takes a deep breath, wiping off his sweaty hands on his robes. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Voldemort's face, as he recites.

" _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not-_ " Harry pauses, his chest hitching. Voldemort's touch on his arm almost grounds him as he forces himself to continue. "- _and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..._ "

He squinches his eyelids more tightly closed, his skin ice cold. Now that Voldemort  _knows_...if he has been taking up the other bits of his soul, well, it's no matter to get rid of Harry, now is it? He can re-absorb it or whatever he does, and then Harry will be completely defenseless without even that meagre protection to keep him safe.

"Harry, look at me," Voldemort says. His tone is soft, but Harry can sense the order in it. Reluctantly, he peels his eyelids open, staring into Voldemort's ruby ones.

"I am not going to kill you," Voldemort states. "Prophecies can be wrong. They can be changed. Now that I am less...insane, I  _know_ that. Who told you the prophecy? Did you hear the orb?"

"Dumbledore," Harry mutters. "He erm, used a Pensieve."

"Pensieve memories can be altered," Voldemort says darkly. "And it isn't like you would be able to tell, not a student, and not against Dumbledore. I would examine the memory, but at that point, we're chasing down rabbit holes. Memories within memories."

"Could you look anyway?" Harry blurts. He can't believe he's just offered the Dark Lord even  _more_ access to his mind. Voldemort looks similarly surprised.

"Of course, Harry," Voldemort says. "Later. Now, I believe it is time to investigate further."

There is a door on the other side of the office, a door that Harry didn't notice before. Harry pales when he levers himself up as he sees it, nearly sicking up on his mental floor.  _Wrongness_ emanates from the door, in tendrils so thick, Harry nearly chokes.

"What is it?" Voldemort asks, his eyes narrowed.

"The door," Harry pants. "Something- I don't know-"

"I can guess," Voldemort says grimly. "Unless he has greatly changed the architecture, something I doubt Hogwarts would allow, that door would lead up to his bedroom."

At this, Harry does sick up, miserably bent over the Headmaster's desk. He cringes in shame as Voldemort rubs soothing circles across his upper back.

"Can you handle this, Harry?" Voldemort asks. Grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth, Harry nods. He doesn't want to come back here, to this tomb of an office, with perpetual slices of sunlight and the musty smell of old books.

The door is unlocked. Touching it produces no pain, although Harry winces when Voldemort places their joined hands on the door knob. A circular staircase spirals up, even more cracked and disused than the office. Voldemort stares at it, his face impassive.

"Interesting," he murmurs. "Come." He leads Harry up the staircase, pushing open yet another door, this one shining golden oak.

Albus Dumbledore stands in the centre of the room.

"Hello, Harry," he says genially. He doesn't even seem to notice Voldemort. "You shouldn't be here, my boy."

Harry starts to hyperventilate, tears clogging his throat and snot streaming down his face. Albus twinkles down at him, bright blue eyes calculating behind half-moon spectacles.

"Is it because you liked it, Harry?" Albus whispers, something predatory caressing the edges of his voice, making Harry shiver. "Did you come here because you liked it? Wanted it? You did, didn't you. I know you did. Even as a first year, Harry, oh, how you begged for it. It always took a while to break you in, but it was so worth the wait." He smiles, a grandfatherly smile that doesn't hide his intentions. He starts to stride forward as Harry scrambles back, sneakers scrabbling on the floor. He's nearly forgotten Voldemort's presence, despite the man's grip on his arm, until Voldemort steps in front of Harry. Dumbledore falters.

"You bore me, old man," Voldemort drawls. "Don't you have any new tricks in that old book of yours?"

Dumbledore's mouth opens and closes a few times, but he has nothing to say. Harry's breathing slowly starts to calm as he peeks around Voldemort's robes.

"I tire of this," Voldemort continues, his wand flashing up. " _Avada Kedavra._ " Green light arrows toward the Headmaster. He falls to the floor with a definitive thump, as the walls shiver and crumble around them.

"Oh, for the love of- it's falling apart," Voldemort says, frustrated, yanking Harry behind him down the stairs. When Harry is too slow for his liking, Voldemort growls in frustration and heaves Harry over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He doesn't stop until they're both completely free of the office.

"There," Voldemort says in satisfaction as he sets Harry down. Harry turns to look just as the last wooden splinters of the door collapse, leaving nothing but a dented, dull key on the ground. "That's that. I believe for the moment, we are done here."

"Did you-" Harry starts tentatively. Voldemort looks at him. "Did you really- really kill him?"

"Unfortunately not," Voldemort says, his lips curling. "Didn't you notice he didn't recognise me? Didn't  _see_ me? It was a trap set for you, I'm afraid. If you ever got this far, you would end up trapped in your own mind while a sort of...avatar of himself abused you again and again. Chances are, the real Albus would find you at some point after that, and you would never be free."

"Oh," Harry says. An icy shiver runs through him, coalescing deep in his stomach.

"Now that I have killed his avatar," Voldemort continues. "The obstruction should be gone. You should be able to talk freely of what he has done to you. Or at least as freely as ordinary traumatic responses would allow. Now. This has gone on long enough."

The world melts around them, like candy floss, and when it is done, Harry's slumped over on the narrow sofa, panting for breath. His glasses hang askew from one ear and he hastily fixes them.

"If I am not mistaken, it is time for lunch," Voldemort says smoothly. "If you are lucky, Severus will be there. We have much to tell him."


	7. Chapter 7

Snape  _is_ there, sitting next to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. He jumps to his feet when he sees Voldemort.

"My Lord," he says stiffly.

"Severus," Voldemort says, inclining his head. "Harry, sit down, would you?" He propels Harry forcibly toward the table, settling him in the chair next to Snape and taking the one next to Harry, sandwiching him in. "You, too, Severus."

"I cannot stay long," Snape says. "Dumbledore has discovered that you're missing, Potter. He is furious, but attempting to mask it with concern. Badly, I assure you. Even Minerva has noticed that he does not seem  _that_ worried about her students, and she isn't pleased. At the moment, his working theory is that you went off somewhere with Granger and Weasley, and that the Dark Lord or one of his minions kidnapped you."

"Ironic, isn't it, that he is indeed with me," Voldemort says, smiling beatifically at Harry. Harry looks down at the tablecloth, his ears reddening worse than Ron's.

"Are- are Hermione and Ron safe?" Harry whispers.

"Yes," Snape says. "I put them both in a small cottage I own. Not even Albus knows of its existence, and it is heavily warded. They're both sixth years, and Granger is one of them, so I trust I will not return to shambles."

"You could bring them here, if they are amenable," Voldemort says. Harry sneaks a peek down at the Malfoys. Narcissa is serene, but Lucius's eyes flare with anger at the thought.

"I will ask," Snape says after a moment.

"Severus," Narcissa speaks up, laying a delicate hand on his arm. "I apologise for the intrusion, but I must ask. Did you know that Delores Umbridge used a Blood Quill on her students?"

Snape stiffens, his black eyes glittering and his mouth thinning into a tight, hard line.

"I did not," he says. "I told my Slytherins to stay out of trouble and ingratiate themselves if it meant they stayed safe from her machinations. But I did not suspect..."

Trembling, Harry puts his hand forward, into the light. The words scarred into his hand make Snape suck in a breath.

" _I must not tell lies,_ " Snape reads. He looks down at Harry, eyes unreadable. "And what lies is she referring to, Potter?"

"That Voldemort was back," Harry whispers.

"Dumbledore must have known," Snape says. "The wards tell him every time a Dark Artefact passes through the gates. A Blood Quill is  _soaked_ in Dark magic."

"Erm-" Harry pauses, chewing on his bottom lip, before continuing. "Doesn't that mean he knew about second year? The- the diary?" Past Snape, he can see Lucius wince at the reminder of his failure.

"He may not have known precisely where it was, but yes," Snape says, frowning. "If the Weasley girl had been in Slytherin, I would have found the diary within the week. Minerva doesn't check up on her students the same way. Even if she did, there's no guarantee she'd pick up on it. She's had precious little experience with Dark magic."

"The Weasleys are a Light family," Voldemort muses. "They belong to him. Interesting, that, that he was so willing to sacrifice their youngest to further his goals for the  _greater good_." The last two words are spoken in sneering disgust.

Narcissa piles his plate high for him, but Harry has a hard time eating as the adults continue their conversation without him. He can't stop thinking about the Chamber and finding Ginny lying on the wet floor, her life force slowly bleeding away into nothing but a memory. The basilisk and its death throes, thrashing in the murky dampness, as Harry watched through glazed, unseeing eyes. He had barely noticed Fawkes landing on him, pearly tears dripping onto his poison-infused wounds. Tom Riddle had been  _furious_. Harry wonders if he still would have been if he had realised that Harry was actually a living Horcrux.

 _He probably would have been jealous,_ Harry decides, stirring his peas around with an elegantly fluted fork. The food is quite good, what he can taste of it, but it is difficult when all you can think of is cold and damp and the ever-present stench of death.

"Why are you not eating?" Voldemort asks, jolting him out of his reverie. Harry looks up to see Voldemort, Snape, and Narcissa staring at him, the latter's face full of motherly concern.

"Sorry," he mumbles, making a great effort to stuff in a forkful of mash.

"He rarely eats much at Hogwarts, either," Snape says, with a frown. "Especially at the beginning of the year." Harry's face is hot at this admission that his Potions professor apparently  _stalks_ him from the Head Table.

"Is it the Muggles again, Harry?" Voldemort asks quietly. Harry turns pink and shrugs, knowing it's an admission already.

"Eat what you can," Narcissa encourages, her voice warm. Lucius says nothing, but Harry fancies the ice in his eyes thaws minutely. Perhaps it's because his wife seems so determined to like Harry, he's given up.

After lunch, Voldemort withdraws to his study, Harry and Snape trailing after. Harry is privately relieved when he sees the familiar study walls. He flops in one of the chairs, his heart pounding when he sees Voldemort take out his wand and ward the room.

"We don't need our esteemed hosts becoming curious, do we?" He asks, his smile gentle. Harry shivers when he sees it.

"I cannot stay long, My Lord-" Snape warns. Voldemort waves a careless hand and Snape sinks back into his seat.

"This won't take long," Voldemort says. "I thought you'd like to know you were right, Severus. There was an obstruction in his mind. I cleared it." Snape's eyes widen, dark with apprehension.

"A replica of Albus's office," Voldemort explains. "There was also a replica of the man's bedroom, complete with avatar programmed to keep Harry in line. If I were not with him and he had somehow managed to stumble across that, he would have become trapped in a nightmare of Dumbledore's creation."

Harry thinks Snape looks vaguely ill. Ill and  _concerned_. He is not used to that emotion from anyone, never mind  _Snape_.

"I discovered something else, Severus," Voldemort continues, his voice soft and silky and weighty with implicit threat. "Do you know what a Horcrux is?"

"I do, my Lord," Snape says cautiously. "It has been constantly on Dumbledore's mind this year, although I believe he has shared more on that subject with Potter."

"Harry," Voldemort murmurs. "Ah, yes, Harry. Did you know, Severus, that Harry... _my_ Harry...is my  _Horcrux_?"

Snape pales so quickly, Harry thinks he might faint. In a twinkling, Voldemort is around the desk, pushing the professor's head between his knees and instructing him to breathe in a low, calm voice. Once Snape has returned to a more upright position, color burning in hectic patches on his cheeks, Voldemort returns to his seat, steepling his hands on the wood in front of him.

"Judging by your reaction, you did not," Voldemort states. Snape shakes his head, wheezing.

"I did not, my Lord," he croaks. "I had- that  _bastard_ ," he utters gutturally, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the arms of his chair. "That's his plan then. It must be."

"What, sir?" Harry asks cautiously. Snape looks at him like he is only seeing him for the first time.

"Raising you like a pig for slaughter, Potter," Snape rasps out. "He has always encouraged you to be self-sacrificing, how could I have not seen?" A myriad of emotions that Harry cannot hope to understand play across Snape's face.

"I've heard the prophecy, Severus," Voldemort says quietly. " _Neither can live while the other survives_. Only, Albus doesn't intend even his little weapon surviving. What an  _honourable_ man." The sarcasm is so thick, Harry can nearly taste it.

"I have to go," Snape says. "Albus, he'll-"

"You will do no such thing," Voldemort orders, calm. "You are in no state to Occlude, Severus, and you know it. You will remain here until I let you leave. You are allowed to send an owl, telling him that you let slip Potter is missing, and I am keeping you with me while I search. I will read it before you send it."

Perhaps it is a testament to how badly this newest revelation has rocked him, but Snape doesn't protest, merely nods. His face is still chalky.

"Sir?" Harry asks tentatively. "Can I- can I see my friends soon?"

"You can't leave Malfoy Manor," Voldemort says at once. "I want you here, where I can protect you." Harry looks at Snape next, who rubs the bridge of his nose.

"When my Lord has released me from my stay, I will ask Granger and Weasley if they are willing to come here," Snape tells him. "I assume you want guaranteed protection."

"Yes," Harry says. Voldemort smiles at him, almost indulgently.

"Of course, Harry," he says. "I will inform the others that your visitors are also to come to no harm. Does that satisfy you?"

"Y-yes," Harry stammers. Suddenly, exhaustion is upon him, like waves crashing against the shore, and he yawns hugely.

"Perhaps you are in need of a nap," Voldemort murmurs, standing up. Harry cringes into the chair, face flushed with embarrassment. He wasn't a  _baby_.

"I'm fine," he tries to protest, but is interrupted by another bone-cracking yawn.

"Take a nap, Potter," Snape says in exasperation.

"Our little foray into your mind was exhausting, Harry," Voldemort informs him, unlocking the wards with a wave of his hand and nearly carrying Harry out of the room. "It is perfectly understandable that you would be so tired."

Voldemort spells off his glasses, helping him to climb up into the fluffy four-poster.

He is asleep before his head thumps against the pillow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Hermione's POV.
> 
> (Not all chapters will be Harry's, just most of them. :p)

It can't be that long, but it feels like years have passed before Professor Snape returns. From Hermione's huddled position with Ron under the invisibility cloak, she can see that he is drooping with exhaustion.

"Oh, come out," he says lowly, his voice dripping exasperation. Hermione peeks out from under the cloak, bushy hair wild. "It's safe for the moment, you silly girl. The Headmaster has no idea what's transpired yet."

"Sir," Hermione begins. She is proud that her voice quivers only a little. "Is Harry- is he all right?" Professor Snape's face shutters.

"He is alive, Miss Granger," he says. His tone holds a wealth of meaning that Hermione cannot begin to digest in her exhausted state. Regardless, relief crashes over her, making her dizzy. Harry is alive. Voldemort hasn't killed him.

"You Know Who, he's not-" Ron starts. Professor Snape shakes his head, once.

"Potter is not being tortured either, Weasley," he says. "You two are in more danger than Potter is at the moment. Granger, gather your damnable cat. You two cannot stay in the castle."

Hermione holds Crookshanks securely in both arms after folding up the invisibility cloak and stuffing it into one of the inner pockets of her robes. This time, Snape casts Disillusionment on all of them, slipping out through a hidden passageway. It is awkward, shuffling along while keeping hold of a rather large and squashy cat, but at the same time, Hermione knows there's no way she can leave him behind.

When they leave the stalwart walls of the castle, the cool air freshens Hermione's mind, making her feel clear-headed for the first time since she found Harry, sobbing and blundering around in the dungeons with blood trickling down his chin.

"Here," Professor Snape says, as soon as they are clear of the gates. He links an arm securely through Hermione's before she can say anything, then does the same with Ron. "Do not let go," he adds tersely. 

Side-along Apparition is awful. Hermione ends up dry-heaving into the dirt as Ron sways beside her, absurdly pale beneath the freckles. Professor Snape sighs and hands them each a small vial.

"It's a stomach soother," he explains, impatient. "Take it."

Ron is more dubious, examining the vial, but Hermione has no such qualms, popping off the cork and quaffing it in one swallow. Her stomach immediately settles and she shivers in relief.

"Thank you, sir," she says quietly. Crookshanks twines around her ankles, purring, as Snape looks down at her, expression inscrutable.

"Welcome to Willow Cottage," he tells them, leading the way up a short cobblestone path. "No one knows of this place but myself. It is heavily warded. I suggest you don't try to leave. The wards will inform me and you will receive a nasty shock."

"We won't leave, sir," Hermione assures him.

"Good," Snape says, fiddling with the lock on the front door and finally pushing it open. The cottage isn't fancy, but looks well-kept and homey, with a lot of soft creams, pale greens, and warm browns. It reminds Hermione of Herbology, and she likes that.

"The house elf's name is Jinx," Snape explains. "She will fix your meals and clean, but I expect you to clean up after yourselves. You aren't toddlers. I also expect you to  _behave_." He puts a lot of emphasis on the word, staring at Ron. Ron's ears flame red as he looks at his shoes.

"I will visit when I can, to see how you're getting on," Snape continues. "Feel free to write letters to Potter if you wish. I will deliver them when I see him next."

"Thank you," Hermione says. "Can you, erm-" She fidgets for a moment. It's such a  _stupid_ request, but it's the only tiny shred of normalcy she can cling to. She blurts it out, anyway. "Is there any way we can keep up with our schoolwork here?"

"Hermione," Ron groans. Hermione fancies she can see a twitch in Professor Snape's lips, like he wants to smile, but refuses to.

"I can arrange for that," Professor Snape tells her. "Theoretical schoolwork, anyway. I don't want you to use your wands frivolously. The wards here negate the Trace, but that doesn't mean you can use magic willy nilly. There will be-"

"No foolish wand waving or silly incantations," Hermione finishes, not meaning to interrupt him. She can't help herself. Snape blinks in surprise.

"How delightful to see I made  _some_ impression on you during your first year," he sneers.

"It was an interesting class," Hermione says as evenly as she can. 

"I have to go," Professor Snape tells them. "You may go anywhere in the cottage except the basement and the master bedroom."

As soon as the door closes behind him, Hermione collapses on the nearest settee, Crookshanks jumping into her lap to comfort her. She lets her hands aimlessly roam over his fur as she struggles to get her emotions under control. Ron hovers over her, awkward, not knowing what to do.

"Oh, sit down, Ron," she finally says in exasperation. He jumps, like he didn't expect her to talk, and sits on the carpet next to her.

"He's alive," Ron says. Hermione nods, compulsively stroking one of Crookshanks's paws over and over. He doesn't seem to mind.

"I thought-" Hermione pauses, biting her bottom lip, before forcing herself to continue. "I thought that was goodbye in Professor Snape's office. I don't- I don't understand why You Know Who wouldn't just-"

"Maybe Harry was right," Ron suggests, shrugging uncomfortably. "Maybe he hates Dumbledore that much, he doesn't care about killing Harry if it means he can bring Dumbledore down."

"But can he?" Hermione persists. "I mean, it would be so hard to  _prove_ anything, and Harry couldn't withstand that kind of trial, it would be dreadful. I know it is in the Muggle world, people are  _awful_ toward abuse victims."

"It's not much better here," Ron admits glumly. "Although if Dumbledore's character gets shredded enough first, maybe."

"If they even go that route," Hermione murmurs. Her cat's quiet purring soothes her. A sudden thought strikes her and she looks up, eyes wild. "Ron, you don't think-"

"What?" Ron asks. Hermione swallows, her heart fluttering in her throat as delicately as a butterfly's wings.

"You don't suppose Dumbledore has- has done anything to  _us_ , do you?"

Ron looks sick as he considers the question, drawing lanky legs up as he wraps bony arms around them.

"I don't know," he offers cautiously. "Maybe...Maybe Snape can tell. I mean, he can't be that much of a git if he saved Harry, right? If he's telling the truth, anyway..."

"Why would he lie?" Hermione retorts. "We know that he's a spy, Ron, he wouldn't just- he  _couldn't_ -"

But Ron's muttered rejoinder prickles her nerves like the tiny pricking of a needle as they get up and investigate the cottage. The basement door is ostentatiously locked, as is the master bedroom, but everything else is open for their perusal. There are two guest bedrooms, a bathroom, the parlor, a kitchen, a small dining room with sliding glass doors that go outside to a small enclosed patio, and what looks like Snape's study. By mutual unspoken agreement, they agree not to go there if they can help it, although Hermione has a feeling she will be wandering in there a time or two because of the bookshelves lining the walls.

"Ron?" Hermione whispers, standing in the doorway of one of the guest bedrooms. This one is done up in peaches and cream, with trimmings of dusty rose. The four-poster bed sprawled across most of it reminds her of Hogwarts. "Could you- I mean- if you want to, do you want to-" She fumbles so badly with her words that Ron laughs.

"I'll sleep with you, yeah," Ron says. "Erm, just sleep," he says, his face going red. Hermione hides a smile behind one hand.

"Thank you, Ron," she says. She enlarges both of their trunks with a flick of her wand, settling them at the foot of the bed. Ron can move his later.

Silence falls again as they prepare for bed, one by one ducking into the bathroom to change and brush their teeth. Hermione feels worn out as she climbs into one side of the bed, under the soft, warm blankets. They remind her of Hogwarts, and her eyes burn. She doesn't want to think about Hogwarts right now. Or how worried Professor McGonagall will be when she discovers  _three_ of her students have gone missing. How worried their other friends will be, like Neville and Luna. She wishes that she could think of a way to let them know that they were all right. But without excellent mental shields, wouldn't they have to go missing, too?

She can't do that to them, especially not Neville. She's heard tales of what his family has done to him, but she also knows their weighty secret, hidden behind sterile doors at St. Mungo's. His grandmother will be utterly devastated if anything happens to her grandson.

And Luna... Her mother died in an accident. She's all her father's got left. It will crush Xenophilius if Luna goes missing, evaporated from school grounds like morning dew.

No, they're on their own, at least for the moment, and Hermione doesn't like it one bit. The bed dips when Ron clambers in the other side and she's a little relieved that he doesn't immediately try to scoot closer. They've been dancing around  _maybe they like each other that way, maybe not_ for a while now, but it feels...wrong to pursue that at the moment, when anything could be happening to Harry.

"Did you know," she speaks into the dark, her eyes staring up at the canopy overhead. "Harry is the one who taught me that sometimes authority isn't always right." She swallows, trying to stop her voice from cracking in the middle. "But I never dreamed..."

"Don't think any of us did," Ron says softly. "My mum adores the man."

"It just makes me wonder now," Hermione says. "Who else has he done this to. I've done reading on the topic before, and paedophiles rarely only have one victim. And he's been alive forever, why would he start with Harry?"

"I don't know," Ron says. "I- I guess we'll find out."

"I guess you're right," Hermione murmurs.

It is a long, long time before either of them manage to fall asleep.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter from a different POV. :)
> 
> This one is from Severus's!

Severus remains in Voldemort's study as the Dark Lord takes Potter off to bed. He feels like he's fallen headlong into some sort of surreal nightmare realm, like Wonderland crossed with Azkaban fever dreams, where nothing makes sense. He's never seen Voldemort be so...solicitous toward another person, the way he is with Potter. Then again, Potter is the living container of part of his soul. How  _would_ one treat a living Horcrux?

His stomach churns as he thinks on all that Albus Dumbledore has done. Raising the boy like a lamb for slaughter, priming him to walk merrily to his death. Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. He doesn't know if Albus is willing to murder Potter in cold blood if by some miraculous chance, he  _didn't_ die while defeating Voldemort, but on the other hand, Albus has never shown much care or concern for his toys. Severus is living proof of that.

Besides, what if Potter ever figured out Albus's little schemes? Severus's skin goes cold at the thought. No, Albus would not let the boy live after his work is done. He would probably prepare a quiet death, perhaps a bit of poison slipped into the child's tea, mimicking a heart attack or some kind of seizure. Leave it just long enough that it can't be undone, while the traces of poison dissipate from Potter's system. A tragedy, but one the wizarding world can overcome. Severus can virtually  _see_ the scene play out in his mind's eye, Albus's voice sorrowful as crocodile tears glitter in his eyes.

Voldemort returns, locking the study door behind him. He looks tired.

"He fell asleep as soon as I got him in the bed," Voldemort says. "He must have been more tired than I thought."

"I do not believe he gets much rest at Hogwarts, my Lord," Severus offers. "I...eavesdrop, as you know, and I have frequently heard him and his friends talk about his nightmares. He usually puts up silencing spells at school, to avoid waking others with his nightmares."

"That bad, are they?" Voldemort asks. Severus nods silently. The Dark Lord sighs. "You look marginally calmer, Severus. Are you?"

"Of c- no," Severus admits. It would be foolish to lie to the Dark Lord, but that doesn't mean that he's not tempted to try. As a spy for both sides, his life is a constant juggling act, after all. "A Horcrux, my Lord. He is a Horcrux and Albus  _knows_. Is there no way to remove one and place it elsewhere?"

"Not that I myself have found, but I've never had the need to look," Voldemort says calmly. "It is telling, though, isn't it?"

"He doesn't want it removed," Severus realises. "He wants you to kill your own Horcrux."

"Tis a pity, then, that I have no intention of doing so," Voldemort says. He leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples with crooked fingers. "You should have seen the damage in Harry's mind, Severus. It reminds me of London during the war. Demolished. If I were against him, Harry would not last a moment. And the...obstruction, as you put it. Clever how he went about it, ensuring that Harry couldn't  _tell_ any of his professors. It's only luck he chose to go to you. Who else is a Legilimens?"

"A good one?" Severus clarifies. Voldemort nods. "Only me. I believe Aurora Sinistra has been learning the arts, but she isn't proficient. I'm unsure of Filius. He is good at keeping things hidden."

"Interesting," Voldemort murmurs. "Tell me, Severus, have you ever wanted to torture the old man to death?"

"Yes," Severus says honestly. It surprises him how easily he can say it. 

"Perhaps we shall arrange it then," Voldemort says. "But not yet. He cannot be made a martyr for his cause." A brief frown flits across his face. "I can't have that at all. Now, Harry's friends."

"What about them, my Lord?" Severus asks, cautious.

"Tell me more about them," Voldemort says, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "I want to know more about my Horcrux's life."

"Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley," Severus says. "Granger is a Muggleborn and Weasley is Molly and Arthur's son. Granger has some of the highest scores in the school, Weasley, not so much. They are both incredibly loyal to Potter. They are two of those who showed up in the Ministry last year."

"Ah, yes, I remember that," Voldemort says, his eyes looking far away. "Weasley must be the redheaded boy. He has a younger sister, does he not?"

"Ginny," Severus supplies reluctantly. He knows more than he wants to about Harry's second year and right now, he knows Voldemort's shade decided that possessing an eleven-year-old child and siphoning away her life force was a good idea.

"Granger..." Voldemort muses. "Draco Malfoy speaks often of her. He is envious of her intelligence."

"He is in the camp that assumes Muggleborns are inferiour," Severus says, as neutrally as he can.

"With Lucius for a father, I would expect nothing else," Voldemort says dryly. "Are there others he calls friend?"

"Neville Longbottom," Severus says. It is hard to say it. Voldemort is not the person who directly put Longbottom's parents in St. Mungo's, but he is the cause nonetheless. "Luna Lovegood, I believe. She is a year younger."

"Her father owns the Quibbler, doesn't he?" Voldemort questions. "An interesting publication." Severus remembers last year, how the Quibbler published Voldemort's return, and mentally winces.

"I don't expect Harry's friends to be secret supporters of me, Severus," Voldemort finally says, in slight exasperation. "You're too tired to Occlude, remember? I can see the wariness in your eyes. There's no need for it."

"I apologise, my Lord," Severus says stiffly. "It is...difficult, I suppose. Potter doesn't keep many friends, as far as I am aware. He ran a defense organisation last year. While I am unsure of his abilities as a teacher, I can say that he was certainly better than Umbridge, who had them all copying pages out of the textbook."

"And using a Blood Quill on her students," Voldemort says. His eyes flicker darker red. "Do you know of others?"

"I would have to investigate the detention records," Severus admits. "As far as I'm aware, she did not use it on any Slytherin student, but I could be mistaken. I'm not infallible."

"No," Voldemort whispers. "You are not. Did you know about the Muggles, Severus?"

"Muggles?" Severus asks, confused. Voldemort's mouth thins.

"Harry's Muggles, Severus," Voldemort hisses. "The ones who were supposed to be raising him."

"I have seen...bits and pieces," Severus says cautiously. "But the Headmaster always assured me that Potter lived well. That he was spoilt, even. I have had doubts on that for a while-"

"Abused, Severus," Voldemort interrupts him. "The filthy Muggles abused him."

"Who was he placed with?" Severus asks. His throat is unbearably dry. Voldemort watches him with burning red eyes.

"His aunt and uncle," Voldemort replies. "Petunia and Vernon Dursley."

Severus is only dimly aware of the roaring in his ears as his hands clench into fists, fingernails digging deep into his palms.  _Petunia._ Albus Dumbledore placed an innocent wizarding child under the care of  _Tuney_. 

"Severus, calm yourself!" Voldemort barks, shattering the cocoon of horrified fury Severus has lost himself in. He shudders once, then looks up.

"I know Petunia," he says. "We...grew up together. Lily's sister. Vile, wretched woman. She hated magic.  _Loathed_ its practitioners. Lily and I were not...not close, but even I know that she  _never_ would have wanted her son to go to her sister. Any man she married would only be more of the same, if not worse."

"Jealous, was she?" Voldemort asks, almost casually. Severus nods.

"Terribly so," Severus says. "She- Lily told me that she found out Petunia petitioned Dumbledore, trying to come to Hogwarts anyway. He refused her."

"I wonder why she took Harry in, then," Voldemort muses. "Instead of dropping him off in the nearest orphanage." He speaks the word with sneering disgust.

"I do not know, my Lord," Severus admits. "Albus must have fixed it somehow."

"Perhaps we should visit Privet Drive, Severus," Voldemort says. "Not to harm them, don't fret. Not  _yet_ , anyway." A twisted smile flits across his face. "Wards are supposed to protect the boy. I wish to see the nature of these wards."

"I am curious as we-" Severus starts to say, before they are interrupted by a high-pitched, broken shriek, trailing off into pitiable whimpers.

Harry.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Harry dreams.

In his dreams, he approaches the gargoyle that guards the Headmaster's office, murmuring the password without knowing it. The password is not important. The circular staircase  _is_ , and he drifts up it as airily as a pixie. Dumbledore smiles at him, offers him a lemon drop. It is sharp and sour, poison against his tongue. He sits in the visitor's chair and his feet do not touch the ground.

 _It is all for the greater good, my boy._ Hands coaxing him up, pulling off his robes. He shakes and shivers, protesting in a weak, feeble voice that is easily ignored. Wrinkled hands glide over his chest, pausing to tweak a nipple and watch the flush that comes over his face, like an encroaching sunrise.

 _You want this, Harry, you know you do,_ a voice in his ear, and the bloody man still sounds grandfatherly, even as Harry feels his trousers yanked off, thrown across the bed. He backs away, but the Headmaster's wand flicks up and Harry is floated onto the bed, flailing uselessly against the magical bonds.

 _You'll like this, my boy_ , but he doesn't, he doesn't like any of it, the salty slick traces on his lips or the searing pain in his arse. He can feel the Headmaster's weight on him, pressing him down into the mattress, as Albus pants roughly in his ear, telling him that he'll never be free, he'll never escape, he-

Harry can't help it, he screams into the bedspread, the choked, raw sound cracking into pathetic whimpering, tears glazing his cheeks.

"Potter," he hears, but he frowns. That's Snape's voice and Snape was never here, was he? It cannot be Snape, standing there in the Headmaster's bedroom while the Headmaster ravages him on the silken expanse of bed.

"Harry," Voldemort insists, and Harry frowns harder because that's even more impossible. "You're dreaming, Harry. Wake up. It is naught but a bad dream."

"Wake up," Snape echoes and finally, Harry jolts awake, looking around wildly, his heart pounding out of his chest.

Both Snape and Voldemort are at his bedside, one on each side. Harry is painfully aware he has sweated through his clothes as Snape hands him his glasses.

"Thanks," he whispers, staring down at his hands. Weakness burns in the back of his mind. He isn't sure if he screamed out loud, but how else would they know to come wake him? He hasn't screamed out loud in a while. Shame is a living thing, writhing through every nerve.

"There is nothing wrong with you for having nightmares, Potter," Snape says quietly. Startled, Harry's gaze flies up, locking in on the Potions Master's dark eyes. "You are not the first student I have woken from bad dreams, nor shall you be the last."

"Sorry if I- erm-" Harry stammers over his words before finally giving up. They know what he means. Voldemort sits on the bed next to Harry, while Snape chooses to draw up a chair.

"Considering the events of the past few days, I would be more surprised if you did not have nightmares," Voldemort states candidly. "I am sure Severus can offer you Dreamless Sleep, if you would like. You can't take it often, as you can become dependent, but there is nothing wrong with desiring a night's rest."

"Please, sir?" Harry asks. Snape inclines his head in agreement. Harry feels a flood of relief at the thought.

"Your friends," Voldemort says, changing subjects. Harry swallows, not sure where the Dark Lord is going.

"What- what about them?" He asks.

"They are welcome here," Voldemort says simply. "I shall not kill them or torture them if they choose to come. All that I ask in return is that they do not attack  _me_ or our delightful hosts."

Privately, Harry thinks that 'delightful' is the  _last_ word he would use to describe Lucius Malfoy.

"I don't know," Harry says, doubtful. "I mean-"

"It would simplify things," Snape admits. "I know that Granger is mature, but Weasley isn't. Cooped up with naught but a house elf for company is not where I would prefer two sixth years to be for any length of time. And you can't go back to Hogwarts, not while Dumbledore remains."

"I know," Harry says quietly. It hurts to hear it out loud, though. Hogwarts has been his  _home_ for so long...

But even from the beginning, his home has always been tainted, hasn't it? A sudden thought strikes him and he turns to Snape.

"Can you er- can you figure out if he's done it to any other students?" He asks urgently. Snape looks stricken at the sight of his desperate green eyes.

"Now that I know the feeling of his particular tricks, there is a chance I could," Snape hedges. "But it is difficult to peruse another's mind, Potter, particularly if you do not want them to discover you're doing it. As far as I am aware, the Slytherins are all safe from his machinations at the moment, although I believe checking on a few of them would still be prudent. When precisely do you think I have  _time_ to check the other three Houses?"

"In class?" Harry offers weakly. 

"I do not see every student in class anymore, but I will do my best when I am allowed to return, if that will calm you," Snape finally says. Harry nods, not caring about the frantic edge to every movement.

"You are calmer now," Voldemort observes, studying Snape. "I will allow you to return to your post when your Occlumency can withstand  _me_."

"Thank you, my Lord," Snape says, inclining his head. Harry chews on his bottom lip, watching the two of them interact. It is...strange, hearing such an obsequious form of address fall from his Potions professor's lips. He is bitter, he is sarcastic, he is perpetually angry... He is not obedient.

Harry suddenly realises he's still sat in bed with his Potions professor and  _Voldemort_ sitting over him, and an embarrassed flush climbs up his face and burns his ears.

"Do you still wish to sleep?" Voldemort inquires. Harry shakes his head violently. No. Not when Albus bloody Dumbledore lurks in his dreams, ready to strip him of his robes and peel his mind like an onion.

"I didn't think you would," Voldemort says. There is a glimmer of something Harry can't decipher in his maroon eyes. "You might as well get up then."

He comes with them, returning to the familiar study. Voldemort gestures Harry into an armchair, leaving Severus to take another. 

"May I look into your mind?" Voldemort inquires. Harry stiffens. "I only wish to make sure that our previous...adventures have not created more damage," the Dark Lord explains. "Would it ease your mind for Severus to do it instead?"

"You- you can do it," Harry says. After all, there's no real reason to say no, is there? Not when Voldemort has already rooted around in his mind more than once, has ritualistically destroyed Albus Dumbledore in his mind's office. It is not like he has any more secrets.

Voldemort catches his gaze, diving into his thoughts like he is skimming atop the crests of gentle waves lapping at the shore. Harry's dimly surprised, once again, at how  _gentle_ Voldemort is capable of being. The sting of his recent nightmares is soothed away with a mental touch and Voldemort withdraws after several long moments.

"None the worse for wear," Voldemort proclaims. "But I remain suspicious of that key."

"The one in the door?" Harry asks. Voldemort nods.

"It remains," he says. "There is no need for it to remain unless it is needed elsewhere."

"But what could be  _worse_?" Harry asks, baffled. "I mean- in his office, it said I'm a- a Horcrux, and then his  _bedroom_ -" His throat works convulsively and his hands tighten into fists. Snape watches him with cautious eyes, but doesn't say anything.

"It doesn't necessarily follow that it is worse than the information we already know," Voldemort reminds him. "All it does is imply that there is more that has yet to be uncovered. I would like to investigate that, if you allow it."

"Now?" Harry asks. Voldemort laughs, shaking his head.

"No," he says. "You are still exhausted and it is draining to perform that, never mind multiple times in one day. There is no great rush, at least for the present. Soon, though."

"Okay," Harry says.

"Potter," Snape speaks up. Harry turns to him. "If you'd like to tell Granger and Weasley anything, now is a good opportunity. I will give them any letters the next time I visit. Don't be so foolish as to write down where precisely you're staying."

"I won't," Harry says. He's not  _stupid_. There's a slim chance the letters could fall into the wrong hands, but there is  _always_ a chance. "Erm, could I-"

Voldemort passes him parchment and a new quill and soon Harry is bent over it industriously, the tip of his tongue poking out just a hair.

In the back of his mind, though, he can't help but wonder what else the key to the Headmaster's office might be hiding.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_Dear Hermione,_

_So it turns out Voldemort is way nicer than I expected and-_

Harry frowns down at his parchment, scratching out his third attempt at a letter. Thankfully, Snape and Voldemort aren't looking at him anymore, having their own conversation behind a privacy spell, and he can't be bothered trying to eavesdrop.

_I can't believe I'm still alive but I am..._

True, but perhaps not the best thing to put in a letter when his plan is to  _reassure_ his friends. He knows Hermione and Ron. The chances that they will just believe Snape that he isn't locked in a dungeon or already dead with no proof is slim. Of course, Snape could make up a letter, but Harry plans to put at least one thing in there that Snape and Voldemort don't know about.

_The Headmaster is worse than I ever imagined and Voldemort actually helped me deal with it._

Harry frowns down at his parchment. That doesn't sound right, either. He doesn't like the tone of disbelief, even if it's true.

_Dear Hermione and Ron (since I know you'll read each other's anyway),_

_I'm alive. I'm okay. Well, I'm not okay, not really, but it's not because of Voldemort or anyone else here. Voldemort has actually been helping me with my mind and he found a trap that a certain person put in there and got rid of it. I guess he's as good at fixing problems as Pomfrey with your little cat problem in second year, Hermione._

_If you want, you can come here. Voldemort says that he won't do anything to you if you don't attack, and that applies to all of his followers, too. I'd really like to see you. It's not bad here, but it feels...weird. I don't know how to explain it. You'll see what I mean if you come._

_Love,_

_Harry_

Not the best, but he supposes it will do. The reference to the botched Polyjuice attempt is ham-fisted, but at least Voldemort never knew it and he doesn't think that Madam Pomfrey ever informed anyone that Hermione had spontaneously grown cat ears and a few other furry attributes. If she had, they would have ended up in detention until graduation, Harry has a feeling.

He blows on the ink to dry it, then rolls the parchment up in a tight scroll. He doesn't trust the information that he himself is a living Horcrux to a letter, so he hopes that they really do take him and Snape up on the offer to come to Malfoy Manor. He would like to visit Snape's cottage, but Harry has a feeling Voldemort isn't going to let him out of his sight any time soon.

"Done, Potter?" Snape asks. Harry jolts, turning and realising that the other two are done with their conversation and just...watching him.

"Er, yeah," he says, handing over the letter. Snape nods, tucking it away in his robes.

"I will see to it that they get it," he says. "I would allow you to write to your friends still at Hogwarts, but we can't take the chance that Dumbledore will discover the truth."

"I understand, sir," Harry says. He does, but his stomach still aches. He doesn't want Ginny or Luna or Neville to worry about what's happened to him, Hermione, and Ron. But what can he do? It isn't like he can just arrange for his friends to be smuggled out.

"Perhaps they can be let in on where you are at a later date," Snape says. Harry bites his bottom lip, refusing to let a hopeful smile slip free.

"Am I to become a sanctuary for Light-aligned Hogwarts refugees?" Voldemort asks in a put-upon tone. Harry stiffens in alarm, only to look at the man and see that he's joking. It is a strange thing, to think that  _Voldemort_ of all people is capable of making a joke.

"Just be glad that you aren't running a sanctuary for my Slytherins," Snape tells him. "Draco is exhausting on his own, never mind with his hangers-on. I'm still unsure how Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle have made it to sixth year, save pity passing them on."

"Didn't Marcus Flint have to re-do his seventh year?" Harry asks curiously.

"Yes," Snape says. "He failed his NEWTs. You can fail some of them, but he went above the threshold. The same applies to OWLs, by the way. But your grades were acceptable, were they not?"

Harry's face colours under the faint praise as he nods, fiddling with his hands.

"Severus," Voldemort says, changing the subject. "Look at me." Harry's professor obeys and after a few tense minutes, Voldemort relaxes into his chair with a slight smile. "You can return to Hogwarts," Voldemort says. "Tell Albus that I haven't found the boy, but you aren't sure if I'm speaking the truth. Tell him that I want you close, so you may be called more frequently."

"Of course, my Lord," Severus says, bowing his head. "I will stop at my cottage first, to deliver your letter, Potter."

"Thank you," Harry whispers. His heart feels like it's beating very fast.

Snape leaves the office, his robes billowing. Harry stares wistfully after him, wishing he could follow. Wishing that he didn't have to think about the Headmaster doing those horrible things to him, being led up to his chambers...

His stomach roils with nausea and he claps his hand over his mouth, desperately afraid he's about to spew up all over the Dark Lord's office. Voldemort seems to sense his distress because in an instant, he is by Harry's side, crouched on the carpet.

"Breathe, Harry," Voldemort instructs. "In through your nose, out through your mouth...yes, just like that. Very good."

Slowly, the nausea and accompanying panic recede, and shame thickens Harry's throat.

"There is no shame in your reaction, Harry," Voldemort whispers, as if he can read Harry's mind.  _Well, of course he can,_ his mind reminds him.  _He's a Legilimens._ "You have been gravely hurt by one who should have protected you. And it is not the first time in your life."

Harry's face burns, knowing who Voldemort is referring to. The Dursleys. He's been in Harry's mind. He  _knows_ what his Muggle guardians are like. Not to mention how he word vomited all over Narcissa Malfoy. But the thought of saying  _anything_ about the Dursleys makes all the words stick in his throat, like a toffee that he can't loosen.

Unfortunately, Voldemort has other plans.

"Harry," he says genially. "Why don't you tell me about the Dursleys?"


End file.
